


(besides we've got) such good fashion sense

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Asshole Parental Figure, Baker Patrick Stump, Bakery, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Designer Pete Wentz, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, clandestine industries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: “Interesting,” Patrick said. He was pretty sure Travie was choking behind him, but Elisa was somewhere and knew the Heimlich so Patrick wasn’t particularly worried. “Can I help you?”Wentz seemed undeterred because he dropped the hand Patrick still hadn’t shaken and charged forward.“I’m launching my spring line in February,” he said. “My bakery caterer dropped out. I know your website said two months for large custom orders, but if you could do it in a month, I’ll pay double. You have great reviews and I’m a little desperate.”





	(besides we've got) such good fashion sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunflashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/gifts).



> happy valentine's day (early i know, i couldn't resist)
> 
> this was a gift for my beautiful @sunflashes who threatened me with bodily harm if i didn't post it. baker patrick and fashion designer pete, what more could you want (there's more i promise)
> 
> the only warning i can think of is "patrick's dad is a bit of a dick in this" which ao3 doesn't have as a tag. also mentions of parental death (in the past, not in this fic).
> 
> all typos mine, sorry. i am unfamiliar with the concept of proofreading (much).
> 
> title from "our lawyer made us change the name of this song so we wouldn't get sued" by fall out boy (that title is a meme)

Patrick was five the first time he ever baked anything. He stood on a stepstool right next to his mom, hands plunged deep in the soft dough, kneading with his mother’s gentle coaching. It was the first time he’d experienced the kind of peace baking brought him, but it certainly wasn’t the last. It sparked a lifelong urge that sent him to culinary school and followed him all the way to opening his very own bakery in Chicago.

He had a very specific routine. Every morning, he woke up at an hour he would have previously called _unholy_ in order to catch the first train in the morning and make it to _Patricia’s Hearth_ , letting himself in and falling right into the rhythm of baking. Everything they sold out front was made that morning and Patrick was too much of a control freak to allow someone else to touch his recipes. By the time he’d finished stocking the front with the daily specials, his staff was arriving to open up and Patrick was getting ready to start his advance orders, which were mostly cakes. 

That was his routine. That was what he did seven days a week, that was what he _loved._

Right up until the worst person on Earth showed up.

Patrick pushed his glasses further up his nose with the hand not currently covered in dough and narrowed his eyes. To his credit, Travie looked apologetic, but that didn’t mean Patrick wanted to hear the words coming out of his mouth. 

“He has an advance order,” Travie repeated. Patrick’s eyes narrowed further. 

“So?” he asked, somewhat challenging. “You know where the forms are. Why are you telling me this?”

“He wants to talk to the owner,” Travie said nervously. “He’s insistent.”

“You know the answer to that,” Patrick said firmly. “I don’t do human contact. He can fill out an advance order request form like everyone else.”

“It’s Pete Wentz!” Travie said finally, blurting it out like he couldn’t keep his mouth shut anymore. Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“Who?” he asked. “Am I supposed to be impressed by that?”

“Pete Wentz!” Travie repeated, and, at Patrick’s blank stare, continued: “Fashion designer?”

Patrick looked down at his seven dollar Goodwill jeans and faded, ripped _The Doors_ t-shirt before looking back up at Travie.

“Who?” he repeated again, and Travie groaned.

“He owns like, the biggest clothing line in Chicago,” Travie said. “If not America. I’m wearing a Clandestine shirt right now.”

“Clandestine,” Patrick said slowly, and Travie nodded. 

“That’s the name,” he said. “Anyway, he wants you to bake the desserts for his winter wear launch. This is like, a huge deal.”

“So I have to talk to him why?” Patrick asked. Travie groaned. “Fine. I’ll talk to him about making something for his little show. This is not going to be a repeat thing. People fill out the form. If I need something, I use my phone and call them. The end.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Travie said, and Patrick wiped his hands before sighing, following Travie out to the front. 

One look at the suit-clad man waiting to talk to his face like a person made Patrick’s brain screech to a halt like a runaway train smashing into a wall. Goddamnit. God _damn_ it.

The man was wearing a faux leather suit with the world’s most battered Converse, straightened and slightly greasy hair in a bun (a _bun,_ Christ) and he had sunglasses perched on the top of his head. He was absorbed in his phone, hip cocked as he leaned against the corner of Patrick’s pastry case, and Patrick absolutely, unequivocally should _not_ be finding anything about this man attractive. 

Then the man shifted and his sleeve rode up to show off Patrick’s number one weakness in every man he saw--tattoos.

Ah, fuck.

“Hello,” Patrick said, hoping his tone sounded businesslike and professional instead of gaspy and schoolyard crush. “My name’s Patrick. Patrick Stump.”

The man--Patrick was assuming that fashion designer Travie was gaga over--finished whatever was so important on his phone before sliding it into his pocket and looking up at Patrick. He gave Patrick the clear, doubtful once-over Patrick was used to-- _oh, you’re the guy who makes the great desserts? I expected something else…._ \--before clearing his throat and sticking his hand out. 

“Wentz,” he said, which, really, what kind of tool introduces their last name first? “Pete Wentz II. I founded and run Clandestine Industries.”

“Which is?” Patrick asked, despite knowing the answer. A look of barely concealed surprise crossed Wentz’s face for a moment before he clearly shook it off. 

“Clothing line,” he said. Patrick raised an eyebrow before deliberately giving a doubtful look at the truly horrid suit Wentz was wearing. 

“Interesting,” he said. He was pretty sure Travie was choking behind him, but Elisa was somewhere and knew the Heimlich so Patrick wasn’t particularly worried. “Can I help you?”

Wentz seemed undeterred because he dropped the hand Patrick still hadn’t shaken and charged forward. 

“I’m launching my spring line in February,” he said. “My bakery caterer dropped out. I know your website said two months for large custom orders, but if you could do it in a month, I’ll pay double. You have great reviews and I’m a little desperate.”

Patrick surveyed him. 

“When?” he asked. 

“Valentine’s Day,” Wentz replied. “I have a list of what I would like.”

“Cool,” Patrick said flatly. “Fill out my form and I’ll do it. Please include a working phone number and I’m going to need a deposit up front.”

Wentz was already nodding. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, yes, absolutely. Thank you so much.”

Patrick didn’t reply, just turned and walked back to his kitchen, heart hammering. Fuck. He _said_ he wasn’t going to take on last minute clients. He also said he wasn’t going to take on anyone he thought was hot. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“You were kind of a dick,” Travie said, and Patrick scowled. “What gives?”

“Maybe I don’t like last minute orders,” he said. 

“So why’d you take him on?”

Patrick scowled harder. 

“Exposure,” he said, and Travie had the audacity to laugh. “Out.”

Travie kept laughing but disappeared back to the front. Patrick exhaled slowly, groaning, before reaching into his apron pocket for his headphones, sliding them in and hitting _play_ on his _get fuckin busy_ playlist. He dragged today’s order closer--wedding. Three tiered cake. 

He did his best to put Unfortunately Hot Client out of his mind. He wasn’t very successful.

\----

“He wants everything!” Patrick seethed to Elisa later. She looked unaffected, calmly cleaning up after him like she always did. Whatever, he paid her well. “Everything on my website!”

“And that’s a problem because?” Elisa asked. She had a smear of flour on her nose, which made her look unbearably cute. Seriously. She was the light of every girl’s life, she just needed to see it. But Patrick digressed. 

“Because it’s less than a month away,” Patrick said. 

“He’s paying double.”

“That’s not the _point,_ ” Patrick said. Elisa rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t have agreed.”

“Why?” Elisa asked. There was a slight smirk on her face. Ugh. “Because he’s hot?”

“He’s not hot,” Patrick lied. “Besides, you didn’t even see him.”

“There’s this new thing out now, maybe you’ve heard of it,” Elisa said. “It’s called Google.”

“You’re the _worst.”_

“Yeah, whatever,” Elisa snorted. “But for real, this could be huge, Pat. It could be really good for the shop.”

“I know,” Patrick sighed. “I know. But ugh. Do I have to be there? You go, you’re hot. I’ll probably drive down our sales.”

Elisa pinched him, hard, the way she always did whenever Patrick talked like that about himself. Patrick scowled, but let it go. 

“So he wants everything,” Elisa said. “So that means you start a few days earlier. You can totally get this done.”

“I know,” Patrick said again. “Sorry.”

Elisa wrapped her arms around him and squeezed gently, grinning softly at him. 

“It’ll be fine,” she reassured. “Besides, think of the exposure.”

“What if we get too busy?” Patrick asked anxiously. Elisa rolled her eyes. 

“Then you hire more people and you let your claws out of your recipes so I can bake for you,” Elisa said firmly. “Stop.”

“What if everyone hates it?” Patrick asked before he could stop himself. “What if everyone agrees it’s awful and they slam us with bad reviews and--”

“Patrick Martin,” Elisa said loudly, interrupting him. “Did you take your meds today?”

Patrick caught his breath, letting it out on a slow exhale, trying to fight off the vice grip on his stomach and lungs that his anxiety had. 

“Yes,” he managed.

“Maybe you should see about an adjustment,” Elisa said gently, squeezing his shoulder. “This is your third breakdown this week.”

Patrick swallowed, shoulders hunched a little. 

“I’ll call,” he promised. Elisa squeezed him again. 

“Is it your dad again?” she asked, and Patrick winced before he could help himself. “You can and should tell him to fuck right off.”

“Maybe one day,” Patrick whispered. “I’ll call.”

“Okay,” Elisa said. “Promise?”

Patrick nodded. He couldn’t break a promise to Elisa, never had, not since she found him shivering in the snow outside his apartment building because he’d locked himself out and was too anxious to ask the landlord to let him in. 

Without her, Patrick wasn’t really sure where he’d be. Not living his dream, that was for sure. Definitely not in therapy. 

“Just keep breathing,” Elisa said. “It’s a good thing, this order. Good things are allowed to happen.”

“You’re the best,” Patrick whispered, resting his head on her shoulder. 

“Where are my cookies?” Elisa asked, and Patrick laughed.

\-----

Patrick hung a large piece of paper on the wall of his office. He did it with all big orders. He called it his game plan. Wentz wanted everything and Patrick was going to give that to him if it killed him. Double entendre unintended.

He’d finished writing _rum cupcakes_ , marker squeaking in the quiet, when Elisa knocked on the frame of his door. 

“Wentz is here to finalize the menu,” she said, and Patrick nodded. “Send him back?”

“Please,” Patrick said, and took a deep breath as Elisa lead Wentz into the office. Wentz wasn’t wearing the atrocious suit, though his hair was still in a bun, and he was just as unfairly hot as he had been yesterday. 

“Hello, Patrick,” Wentz said, flashing him a grin. Patrick met Elisa’s eyes behind Wentz, which practically screamed _be nice!_ at him, so he swallowed and took the offered hand this time. 

“Hello, Mr. Wentz,” he said diplomatically, and Wentz flinched. “Sorry?”

“Sorry,” Wentz said apologetically. “Please, please call me Pete. Mr. Wentz is my very unkind father.”

“So sorry,” Patrick said, heart sinking a little. An asshole father. Oh _boy_ Patrick could relate. Pete gave him another smile, softer, a little sad. 

“No worries,” Pete said, with false bravado and cheer. “Anyway, the good stuff! What do you have for me?”

“Your order says you need to have enough to feed around a thousand people,” Patrick said. “To split that up evenly I think we need five to ten different desserts. The more we have, the less of each. Thoughts?”

“Let’s do ten,” Pete said. “Did I write down the dietary stuff? My PA is vegan.”

Patrick nodded. 

“I thought two could be vegan,” Patrick said. “Or I do a small portion of each vegan. You didn’t mention allergies, but I’m nut free anyway.”

“I don’t know of any,” Pete said. “You sure this isn’t too much?”

“I wouldn’t have agreed if I thought it was too much,” Patrick said. “Do you want to taste test to choose your ten?”

“I’ve been looking forward to it all week,” Pete said. “Yelp reviews do not lie, my friend.”

Patrick willed down the flush. 

“Okay,” he said. “Follow me.”

He led Pete into his kitchen, where he’d pre-made samples of everything on his menu, as requested. Pete had meant it when he said he’d pay double--his deposit was Patrick’s entire usual charge. The dude was serious. 

Pete whistled.

“Wow,” he said. “You’ve been busy since yesterday.”

“They’re all fresh,” Patrick said, unable to help feeling a little proud. “Made them this morning.”

Got to the bakery two hours early to do it, but whatever. 

“Well, thanks,” Pete said, flashing him a warm grin. “Where should I start?”

The problem with allowing very hot guys to sample his baked goods was that the noises very hot guys made while eating various baked goods was nearly pornographic. Patrick’s pants felt a little tight on Pete’s third moan, and his cheeks were hot and probably pink. 

“I can’t choose just ten,” Pete said sadly, halfway through. “You’re way too good, how are people not lining up every day to eat your sweets?”

Patrick flushed a little more and he swallowed hard. 

“You’re too kind,” he said, and his voice came out more high pitched and flattered than snarky and detached, but Pete was too busy trying Patrick’s snickerdoodles (his secret was that he included a hint of cocoa powder.)

In the end, Pete managed to narrow it down to ten: the snickerdoodles, along with the rum cupcakes Patrick was hoping he’d select, rocky road brownies, and his signature tiramisu, among others. Patrick was satisfied with this plan, even though the tiramisu added more time to his budget than he’d planned. 

“I’ll have to see the venue for the tiramisu,” Patrick said. “It has to be refrigerated until the very last minute.”

“Do you come to events?” Pete asked. “I was hoping you did.”

“I do sometimes,” Patrick confirmed. “Let me know the dress code.”

“It’s whatever you wanna wear, honestly,” Pete said. “I wanna thank you again. You’re a real lifesaver.”

“I appreciate your business,” Patrick said, miraculously not including _and your hotness_. A knock on his kitchen door made him turn to meet Elisa’s icy gaze. 

“Phone?” he asked, and she nodded, expression tight. “I’ll be right there.”

Elisa ducked out without a word and Patrick bit his lip. Shit. This was a very bad time.

“Everything okay?” Pete asked carefully when Patrick turned around. Patrick tried to offer his best professional smile. 

“Of course,” he said. “Anyway, let me know what you decide about the vegan question, please.”

“Of course,” Pete echoed. “Uh, thanks.”

Patrick nodded and tried not to wince as Pete made an ungraceful and kind of awkward exit from the kitchen, bumping into Brendon, the new kid, as he left. Patrick let out a long sigh before walking back to his office and picking up the phone. 

“What?” he said flatly. 

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m really busy, Dad,” Patrick said, trying to keep his heart rate normal and breathing steady. God. Talking to his Dad always sent his anxiety skyrocketing. “I’ve asked you not to call me at work.”

Elisa’s voice was loud in Patrick’s head, asking when the hell was Patrick gonna grow a spine, but he tried to ignore it. 

“Come home,” his dad said. “I need help.”

“I really can’t,” Patrick tried. 

“Your bedroom door is locked,” his dad snapped. 

“You’re not allowed in there, remember?” Patrick said flatly. “Last time you threw away my medication, which I need. I’m not coming home. You don’t need help, you’re perfectly fine.”

“You’re not _busy,_ ” his dad scoffed. 

“I just got a big order.”

“When the hell are you going to be done with that little baking bullshit?” his dad asked. “You need a real job.”

“This conversation is over,” Patrick said tiredly. “I’m busy, stop calling. I’ll be home when I’m home and that’s that. And stay away from my bedroom. It’s my apartment.”

“That’s not the way you talk to your father,” his dad began, but Patrick pulled out all the courage he had and hung up before he had to hear any more. No guarantees he wouldn’t call again later, but that was a later problem. 

He wished his dad wasn’t his problem, but he wouldn’t move out and as Elisa pointed out, Patrick wasn’t able to kick him out. He really did need a spine. 

He rubbed his eyes and sighed again, glancing back up at his game plan. Okay. Time to finalize Pete’s choices. Step by step. 

\-----

“You’re late.”

“I don’t have a curfew,” Patrick said as patiently as he could. “I’m an adult. I’ve asked you and asked you to stop calling me at work.”

“I’m your father,” his dad insisted. “You need to listen to me. You’re poisoning your body with that garbage, Patrick.”

“No, I’m not,” Patrick said tiredly. “And I really don’t want to have this conversation with you right now. How’s apartment hunting?”

“You’d kick out your own father?”

“I’m twenty seven, Dad,” Patrick said. “I really don’t want or need you around. Please.”

“You’re turning into your mother,” his dad said, sneering on _mother_ like it was a dirty word. “You were always the outcast of my children.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said shortly. “Where are your other children now?”

“Being successful.”

“For the last time,” Patrick said. “I own my own business. It’s not my fault you hate it. I really need you to move out. I asked you six months ago.”

“I have nowhere to go,” his dad pouted. 

“You have enough money from your pension to find a place,” Patrick said. “I haven’t charged you rent, which I should. I’m going to bed, I had to get up early.”

“I need dinner.”

“You know how to cook, I’m not doing it for you,” Patrick said. “Leave me alone. You have a month.”

“You always say that,” his dad said, but Patrick ignored him, unlocking his bedroom and all but slamming the door behind him, locking it for good measure. He took a deep breath and crossed to the bathroom, opening up his lockbox and breathing a sigh of relief when his three meds were still there. His father hadn’t gotten to them. Thank God. 

Ativan. Klonopin. Prozac. He’d probably need less of these if his dad wasn’t living with him, breathing down his neck and exacerbating his already bad anxiety and depression. Ever since his mom--no. Fuck, he could _not_ think of her right now, he was already upset. 

With a slow, deep breath, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text. 

**To: Elisa**  
_He didn’t get them._

A quick check of his email told him his doctor hadn’t replied to his request for an appointment yet and that Pete had emailed him. He opened it, mind switching to _work_ mode right away. 

_Hi, sorry to bother you so late. Andy (my PA) said if you could make a small percentage of everything vegan that would be great as some of the models and stuff are vegan as well. Thanks so much._

Patrick filed that away in his tomorrow brain and hit _reply._

_Sure, no problem, will do._

So Pete’s PA was vegan and so were the models but he wasn’t. Interesting. After half a second of trying to tell himself it was weird, he ignored it and opened up Chrome on his phone, typing in _Clandestine Industries_ before he could stop himself. 

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III was the founder and CEO and the company was worth ten billion. That was a lot for a company Patrick had never heard of. Turned out the fashion show Patrick was catering was intensely looked forward to--Patrick found it odd that his bakery was mentioned by name in several articles _and Wikipedia._

He clicked on the link for Pete, lying on his back on his bed as it loaded. 

Birthday was June 5th and he was thirty two. Kind of young to be in charge of a multi billion dollar company, but whatever. His Wikipedia picture was a carefully staged photoshoot that made him look even more hot than he was in person, which was rude. 

“Ugh,” he whispered. “Why are you so hot?”

His phone didn’t answer so he scrolled down. Interesting--estranged from his family, he built his empire on his own, which explained his reluctance to be associated with his father. If only Patrick could be estranged from his own father. He could hope. 

Most of the clothing in Pete’s line was kind of garish, but it was popular so Patrick couldn’t say much. Patrick didn’t know much about fashion in the slightest so he was willing to let that part go. Let the experts say what was true. 

The best part, though, was _Pete_ in his garish clothing because damn did he make it look _good_. Like, really good. Too good. Patrick _had_ to stop thinking his client was hot. 

His email alerted him to a new message, and he opened the app and frowned. Pete? 

_Is tomorrow a good day to check out the venue? So you can have a better idea about space, etc?_

Patrick thought for a moment. To his knowledge, he didn’t have advance orders, so as long as it was after 9…

_Sure. I’m available after 9 AM._

The response was instantaneous, as if Pete was waiting on the edge of his seat. 

_How about noon? Venue is Uptown Theater._

Patrick’s fingers answered before his brain could catch up. 

_Sure, sounds great._

Patrick exhaled and closed his eyes. Fuck.

\----

The Uptown Theater was kind of busy, which surprised Patrick. He tugged on his shirt self-consciously, like he always did in public. It was a nice shirt for once, a button down, and he had good jeans on, not his thrift store ones, because these were fashion people and he had to make a good impression. 

According to Elisa, at least. He swallowed, hoping his hair was okay. He’d gone sans hat, which he hated but Elisa thought would be better. He didn’t realize his hats were such comfort items until now. 

He caught sight of Pete and resisted the urge to run. Stupid. Pete was his client, it was fine.

Pete grinned and waved at him before a woman ran up to him. She was taller, willowy, and Patrick didn’t need to be an expert to know she was a model. Pete laughed at something she said, wrapping an arm around her and kissing her cheek. 

Patrick’s heart sank. 

Stupid! This was why he shouldn’t get attached. Of course a young, handsome billionaire was dating a model. Who else would he date? Certainly not Patrick, Patrick was a goddamn idiot for thinking otherwise. 

He tried to put his best professional expression on, one that hopefully didn’t scream _goddamnit I wanted to kiss you_ , and Pete grinned again as he stopped in front of him, arm still around the frankly gorgeous model. 

“Hi, Patrick,” he said, and Patrick shook the offered hand. “This is Meagan, my number one model.”

“Stop,” Meagan said, grinning. “So nice to meet you, Patrick. I heard your baking is amazing.”

“Thank you,” Patrick managed to say, instead of _goddamnit, you’re hot too_. “This is a super exclusive venue.”

“Right?” Pete said. “It’s a miracle they’re working for us. Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be set up for the show.”

Patrick followed Pete and Meagan, still apparently joined at the hip, through the venue, dodging workers who appeared to be setting up the runway. Patrick still felt horribly out of place and deeply uncomfortable. He did not belong here, not at all, not even kind of. 

“So this will be the backstage area,” Pete said. “And around the corner here is catering. You’ll be able to watch the show, if that’s your thing, but your time won’t be monopolized for more than a few hours.”

“Looks good,” Patrick said without even pretending to glance around. Pete’s back was turned to him, so the open stare on Patrick’s face wasn’t noticeable. Yet. Patrick really had to pull himself together. “So you just want the two cakes for the rehearsal, right?”

“Right,” Pete said. “Can you make it?”

“It’s my job,” Patrick said. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it. “So how many models are in this thing?”

He had no idea why he asked that. For fuck’s sake, he needed to divorce himself from Pete, but there his mouth went, running off without him. 

For the record, Pete didn’t seem to think the question was weird at all. 

“Twenty,” he said. “It was hard to narrow them down--Andy! Over here!”

Patrick blinked and a guy appeared next to Pete, super fit and dressed neatly in a polo and jeans that didn’t quite go with the tattoos covering his body. He had a bluetooth in his ear and a clipboard in his hands and looked unimpressed. 

“Pete,” he said. “You told me the caterer was coming today.”

Pete gestured at Patrick and the guy that must have been Andy glanced over in surprise, having clearly missed Patrick. He shifted his clipboard to one hand and held out the other, shaking Patrick’s firmly. 

“Andy,” he introduced. “Pete’s PA. You must be Patrick Stump, owner of _Patricia’s Hearth.”_

It wasn’t a question but Patrick nodded anyway, suddenly intimidated. Was it like, a law that everyone Pete hung around with was almost too hot to look at? It seemed like it. 

“Do you have any questions about the big day?” Andy asked, but Patrick’s mind went abruptly blank and he forgot most of the English language all at once, so he just shook his head, feeling mute. 

“Cool,” Andy said. “Pleased to have you on board. Pete, I need Meagan.”

“Go ahead, hot stuff,” Pete said, and Meagan giggled just as Patrick’s heart sank again. Goddamnit. No. _No_. Pete was _off limits_ , why wouldn’t his stupid, traitorous brain understand that?

“So,” Pete said, turning his attention back to Patrick. “You wanna like, get coffee or something? Full disclosure, I might end up bouncing my vision off you. It’s nice to have a pair of ears that have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“I will have nothing valuable to offer, but sure,” Patrick said, instead of the logical answer, which was _no._ Pete grinned. 

“Sweet,” he said. “There’s this place a couple blocks away that I know.”

Patrick swallowed and resigned himself to a very uncomfortable afternoon. 

\-----

Patrick had never been to this coffeeshop--not that he got out often in order to discover coffeeshops, but still. He awkwardly ordered a plain coffee, unsure if any of the fancy ones would be to his taste, and trailed after Pete to a corner table, clutching the coffee like a shield. 

“I’ve gotta know,” Pete said, and Patrick tried hard to stay calm. “Why a bakery? I mean, don’t get me wrong, your stuff is bomb, but you’re super hot, you could totally model or something.”

Patrick mouth went dry and he tried to gather even on brain cell in order to respond to that. Him, hot? Him, modeling? The idea was ludacris, he refused to believe it. Pete was just being polite. 

Pete also seemed to be taking Patrick’s helpless silence the wrong way because he backtracked quickly, stammering over his words. 

“Shit, sorry, was that offensive, I didn’t mean--”

“No,” Patrick said quickly, blurting it out. “No, I mean, no. It’s fine. I just--I’m very awkward in like, social situations? And I have zero grace or charm at all. And I’ve never been flattered like that, so thanks.”

Pete broke into a cautious grin and took a sip of his coffee, poking the heart shaped centerpiece more to the center of the table, seemingly considering his words before speaking. Patrick let him for a moment, before realizing he never actually answered the question. 

“My mother taught me how to bake,” he explained. “It was like, our thing. And I went to culinary school, which my father hated but. I loved it.”

“Your mom must be so proud of you,” Pete said, and Patrick’s reassuring grin faltered as the usual lump grew in his throat, the same one that grew every time his mother was brought up. 

“I--yeah,” Patrick managed to say, sounding mostly normal. “I’m sure she would be. Unfortunately, she--uh, she passed away. Before I graduated. So she never got to know.”

“Oh,” Pete said softly. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” 

Patrick shrugged halfheartedly. 

“I named it after her,” he said. “The bakery. It’s like a little piece of her is still with me. I have my father but. Well. I always got along better with my mom.”

“I feel that,” Pete said, nodding. “Well, kind of. I dropped out of school to do fashion designing and my parents never let me hear the end of it. When I finally told them I wasn’t going back, that I was doing what I loved even though I wasn’t successful yet, they told me not to bother coming back. And I want nothing to do with parents like that. So I’m on my own.”

“Must be nice to have Meagan,” Patrick offered. A trace of confusion crossed Pete’s face but he let it go, choosing to nod instead. 

“So, the show,” he said finally. “I decided Valentine’s Day would be cute, even if it is cliche. Most of my spring line is pastels, I thought it would fit.”

“If that’s the theme, I can decorate the pastries accordingly,” Patrick offered. Pete hadn’t put that in his order form, but apparently, Patrick was still a sucker for a hot dude with tattoos. Pete grinned. 

“That would be awesome!” he gushed. “Thanks so much!”

Patrick nodded, opening his mouth before the buzzing of his phone distracted him. He glanced down, clenching his jaw as he saw that _Dad_ was flashing across his screen. He looked back up at Pete. 

“Everything okay?” Pete asked, and Patrick swallowed. 

“Yeah,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah, fine. So. Tell me more about your spring line and why I should care about fashion.”

Pete laughed and Patrick tried his best to put his father out of his mind. 

\-----

“You _ignored_ my calls!”

Patrick stopped dead in the doorway of his apartment, looking from his open bedroom door to his father in stunned silence. 

“What are you doing?” he finally demanded. “What the hell are you doing, I locked that!”

“And I picked the lock,” his dad said proudly. “I am _not_ having my son take poison.”

Patrick looked down at his father’s hands, where he could see his empty _empty_ prescription bottles.

“Did you take my meds?” Patrick demanded, feeling abruptly sick. “Dad, I told you to stay out of it, this is none of your business. I need those! Where did you put them?”

“I dumped them,” his father said, smirking. “Down the toilet. Grow a pair and be a man.”

“Dad,” Patrick said. “I need my goddamn medication, why the _fuck--_ ”

“Don’t you use that language!”

“It’s my apartment!” Patrick exploded. “It’s my apartment and my life and my money, all you do is interfere, how _could_ you?”

“I’m helping you,” his father’s voice was eerily calm. 

“You are not,” Patrick said. “You are not helping me, you just screwed me. I need my medication, Dad. I need it.”

“So you’re addicted?” 

“No!” Patrick said. “No, I am not, I have anxiety and depression and my medication _helps me._ God, Dad, why do you always--ugh. No. Find a new place to live, you’re out by the end of the month. I’ll give that to you in writing. I’m done.”

“You can’t kick me out, I’m your _father--”_

Patrick didn’t bother listening to his father’s rant, just turned on his heel and left, heart pounding. He prayed Elisa still had backup meds for him. She’d be pissed at his dad, she’d argue more with him, but he hoped to whatever God existed that she still had his back. 

He hoped and prayed through his entire train ride to Elisa’s place, up the elevator, and to her front door. 

“Oh, no,” Elisa said, taking one look at Patrick’s face. “What did he do?”

“He took my meds,” Patrick choked out. “He dumped them. I told him he had to be out by the end of the month, I can’t do this.”

“Email your doctor,” Elisa said, clearly trying hard to be calm. “And ask for more. You shouldn’t even give him until the end of the month, he stole your shit, Patrick. Stand up to him.”

“I know,” Patrick said. He was hyperventilating, panicking a little. “I know, I know Elisa, but I have no meds. My doctor hasn’t even replied to my first email, it’s going to be too long--”

“I have your backups,” Elisa said, taking his hand and pulling him inside. “But you need to calm down. Okay? You need to breathe.”

“What if he doesn’t leave?” Patrick panted, and Elisa squeezed his hand

“I will drag him out myself,” she said firmly. “You don’t deserve to live like that. Your brother and sister have abandoned you to him, he is not your responsibility. Okay?”

Patrick nodded, unable to draw enough breath to form any more words, and Elisa squeezed his hand again. 

“Okay,” she said. “Breathe.”

Patrick tried, tried hard. Slowly, in and out, like his therapist told him, five seconds, ten seconds, until he was calmer, clutching Elisa’s hand in the middle of her kitchen. 

“What did you do today?” Elisa asked. It was an abrupt change of topic and Patrick knew what she was doing, but he appreciated it. 

“Went to tour the venue for the fashion show,” Patrick recited. “Met a model, who’s Pete’s girlfriend, and Pete’s PA. Went to coffee with Pete. Ignored a phone call from my dad. Came home and--”

“Okay,” Elisa said, interrupting him before he could spiral again. “Pete has a girlfriend?”

“I guess,” Patrick mumbled. “They were very touchy feely.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Elisa dismissed. “They might be friends, that’s all. Don’t get down on yourself.”

“It’s not like I had a chance with Pete anyway.”

“I _said_ don’t get down on yourself,” Elisa said firmly. “What if I seduced the model, would that help?”

“You’re the best friend I ever had,” Patrick said honestly, and hugged her. “Pete’s nice.”

“Good,” Elisa said. “I’ll kick his ass if he ain’t.”

“Stop saying ain’t,” Patrick said, fighting a grin, and Elisa pinched him. “Thank you.”

“You’re my best friend,” Elisa said gently. “Please kick your dad out.”

Patrick nodded. 

“I will,” he said, and Elisa kissed his cheek. “That’s gay.”

“You’re gay,” was all Elisa replied with, and Patrick just laughed. 

\-----

“Hi,” Patrick said, doing his best to be upbeat while his brain replayed the drama with his father. “Sorry I’m early.”

“God, I’d take early over late at this point,” Pete said, sounding stressed. He pointed at someone over Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey! What the hell? That goes over there, there’s a whole layout, come on!”

Whoever it was shouted an apology back and Pete took a deep breath before focusing on Patrick again, giving him a wry smile. 

“So much shit is going wrong even Andy is stressed,” he said. “And it takes a lot to get that dude stressed.”

“Guess that’s why you have a rehearsal,” Patrick said, and Pete nodded fervently. 

“I am so glad you’re here,” he said, then bit his lip. “Can I press you into service?”

The professional answer was no. Patrick was here to cater and that was it. He was not friends with Pete, his obligation began and ended with dessert. 

Unfortunately, his lingering _feelings_ for Pete coupled with his inability to not help people who needed it spoke first. 

“Of course,” he said. “Direct me.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, grabbing Patrick’s hand. Little electric shocks went up Patrick’s arm and he swallowed, fighting a blush. “Oh, _God_ , thank you. Come with me, I need a second opinion on the models.”

Patrick had zero knowledge of fashion and would absolutely be no help but Pete probably just needed to talk at somebody, so he went. 

“Okay,” Pete said as they came to a halt. “Okay, this is the opener. Spring line, remember.”

Oh, Patrick could tell it was the spring line. Everything was bright colors, with no trace of black or brown anywhere. It was like a set of rainbow sharpies had vomited onto twenty models, but Patrick definitely couldn’t say that. 

“Okay,” he said hesitantly. 

“The problem is that I really want Hayley to wear that,” Pete said. “But it was designed for a taller girl so it won’t look quite right. Although I can alter it, but it’s a bit short notice. Damn, this whole thing is short notice.”

Patrick appeared to have been right, since Pete was off, rambling about each specific item apparently just to have someone hear his thoughts. Patrick was happy to do that--and _not_ just because he still wanted to suck face with Pete, thank you very much, but because it required no effort from Patrick whatsoever. 

If Patrick focused a bit, he guessed he could see the fashion in the mess of color. Maybe. More importantly, he could see the models, which gave Patrick pause. 

Patrick was used to one type of model--tall, skinny, perfect. Apparently, not all models fit that bill. At least not in Pete’s show, that was for sure. Several models were as short as Patrick was, some were curvy, some were skinny, one was missing an arm and another was in a wheelchair. 

Patrick hadn’t ever seen models like this before, certainly not in advertisements or television. To him, models were always _other_ \--nothing like this. Like real life. 

“So?” Pete asked, and Patrick wrenched his eyes away. 

“Your models are gorgeous,” he said honestly, and Pete beamed. 

“They’re the best,” he said proudly. “I won’t settle for anything less. Okay, quick change!”

Pete clapped his hands and a curtain was dropped over the group, presumably to give them time to change. Patrick glanced at Pete, who looked a little calmer. 

“It’s gonna go great,” Patrick said, before he could think better of it. “Really.”

He had no idea why he was taking time to reassure Pete but he was. Pete broke into an honest grin at that, bright and happy, almost too much for Patrick to look at. It was like a magnet, though, because as soon as Patrick saw it, he was grinning, too, helplessly, reflexively. 

He tried to firmly tell himself that Pete was _off limits_ , not available, let it go, but it was so hard when Pete was looking like that, standing next to Patrick. It was all he could do to keep his hands to himself. 

He took a deep breath and tried to focus. 

\-----

Today’s advance order was a wedding cake, which Patrick loved to make. He’d sketched out designs and the couple chose their favorite and their wedding was tomorrow. Patrick loved weddings. 

He was rolling out the fondant while the cakes actually baked, carefully rolling up roses while Bowie blasted in his earphones. He quietly hummed along, rolling rose after rose until he thought he had more than enough and began dusting them with the edible gold powder.

A poke to the ribs made him jump and pull out one earbud with gold covered fingers, turning to see Travie. He raised an eyebrow and Travie grinned. 

“You have a visitor,” he said. “I think his name is Wentz. Should I assume you’re too busy?”

“Shut up and send him back here,” Patrick ordered. Honestly. His staff was entirely too invested in Patrick’s stupid little crush. “He made an appointment.”

“Good for him,” Travie smirked, but disappeared. Patrick paused his music and stuffed his earphones in his pocket, glancing back up just as Pete stepped into the kitchen with a nervous smile. 

“Hi,” Patrick said, and Pete gave him a dorky wave.

“Hi,” Pete replied. “Sorry to bother you, I know you’re super busy, but I was wondering if I could ask you a huge favor that you probably can’t do which I understand?”

“What’s the favor?” Patrick asked, instead of saying anything in response to that rambling rant. Pete took a deep breath. 

“Meagan’s birthday is Saturday,” Pete said. “I know that’s only three days away but she’s been having a rough time and I wanted to cheer her up with cake, if that’s possible?”

“How many people?” Patrick asked, instead of rejecting it outright, which he _should_ , three days wasn’t _nearly_ enough time for this and Pete shouldn’t get special treatment because Patrick wanted to kiss his face. 

Pete looked relieved, though. 

“Not many,” he said. “Just me and her and Andy and Andy’s boyfriend and you and your staff, if you like. She doesn’t have many friends since she moved here.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He really needed to check his calendar but he was pretty sure this wedding cake was the only advance order this week, and even if it wasn’t, it was just a cake. Patrick could handle that. “Flavor?”

“She likes chocolate,” Pete said. Patrick nodded. 

“What’s going on?” Patrick asked and Pete sighed. 

“Her mom and dad got divorced and blamed her,” Pete said. “Even though she’s an adult and not their problem. They’re shitty people.”

“Yikes,” Patrick said. Elisa stuck her head in the kitchen and Patrick shook his head. “Hang up, I’m busy.”

Elisa grinned with pride and ducked back out. Patrick felt a little sick--he’d been avoiding his father since what happened, and ignoring his calls was only going to make it worse, but. Fuck it. Elisa was right. 

Right?

“I’m sorry about that,” Patrick said. “Where are you having it?”

“Haven’t thought that far ahead,” Pete said. “Too late to book anything.”

“You can do it here,” Patrick suggested, before an ounce of common sense interrupted him. “If you like.”

“Really?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded. “Thank you so much. I’ll pay extra.”

“You really don’t need to,” Patrick said. “Consider it a gift.”

Pete grinned at him, a little awe in his eyes. 

“You always this nice to clients?” he asked softly, and Patrick felt his cheeks heat up.

“Sometimes,” he managed. “If you’re lucky.”

“Then I feel lucky,” Pete said. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s really not a problem,” Patrick said. “I’m happy to help.”

Pete grinned at him again and Patrick flushed again.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

\-----

Patrick spent entirely too long on Meagan’s cake, decorating it carefully with actual icing and the leftover fondant roses. _Happy Birthday, Meagan!_ was written in Elisa’s curly lettering across the top. 

Patrick hadn’t been home since his father flushed his medicine, subsiding on Elisa’s generosity and the clothes he’d stashed there. His doctor finally responded with a brand new increased prescription and as long as he didn’t think about his father at his apartment, he was fine. 

Andy arrived first, texting intently, hip to hip with a dude that had curly hair and almost as many tattoos as Andy did. 

“Joe,” Andy said, without looking up from his phone. “This is Patrick. Thanks for this, by the way.”

“No problem,” Patrick said, unsure of what else to say. That was apparently sufficient, because Andy moved past him, Joe in tow, to wander around his bakery. 

“It’s nice!” Joe called out, with a genuine smile. Patrick did his best to return it. 

“Thank you!” he said, and tried to keep breathing. 

By the time everyone was ready for cake, Patrick hadn’t calmed down at all. There hadn’t been this many people in his bakery at a time, much less this many people that he had to be around. This was way more than Pete estimated. Normally Elisa would be right next to him but she’d disappeared to hang around Meagan. Patrick hoped to God she wasn’t interrogating her. 

Patrick sang along to the birthday song and his anxiety lessened once people exclaimed over his cake. Just a bit, at least. 

“So,” Joe said, snapping Patrick out of his anxiety spiral. “You can like, bake.”

“Uh,” Patrick said. “Yeah? I hope?”

“Gotta say, I’m glad Pete chose you,” Joe said. “If only so I can eat everything on your table while the show is going on.”

“What do you do, exactly?” Patrick asked, and winced. There he went again, being blunt. Joe didn’t seem to mind. 

“I’m a model,” Joe said. “And Andy’s boyfriend. I expect to see a lot of you.”

“You--do?” Patrick asked, voice cracking mid sentence. He cleared his throat. “I mean, thanks. I think.”

Joe laughed, but not unkindly. 

“Dude, Pete is obsessed with you,” he said confidently. “I would expect him to corner you sometime tonight. Just as a heads up.”

“Pete..what?” Patrick asked. “Obsessed? Corner?”

“You are literally too precious for words,” Joe said. “I’m gonna go now. You figure it out.”

Joe vanished before Patrick could say a word, leaving Patrick to gape after him, water bottle clutched in one hand so hard he crinkled the plastic. What was that? What the hell was that? Was Joe actually implying Pete was….was _interested_ in Patrick? Impossible. Just impossible, not least of all because _Meagan was his girlfriend_.

“Hi,” Pete said from behind Patrick, and Patrick yelped and jumped, heart hammering in his throat. He sucked in a deep breath and willed his panic response down a little bit, offering Pete what he genuinely hoped was a good smile. 

Pete winced, so Patrick obviously wasn’t very successful. 

“Sorry to scare you,” Pete offered, and Patrick forced a laugh.

“No, it’s my bad,” he managed to say, sounding mostly normal. “Uh...how are you?”

It was Patrick turn to wince, at least internally, because _how are you?_ Really? Way to be awkward, Stump. Pete didn’t seem to think so because he smiled this time. 

“Good,” he said. “This is...wow. More than I hoped for. I don’t know how I can thank you.”

Patrick shrugged one shoulder. 

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I...I don’t mind. Really.”

“You’re something else,” Pete said. “The cake is amazing. The show isn’t gonna know what hit them.”

“That’s the goal,” Patrick said, forcing his voice through a rapidly constricting throat. Pete laughed.

“I’m so glad I found your bakery,” Pete said. “That’s two times you saved my ass.”

“What does the third time get?” Patrick somehow asked. What was he doing? Was he flirting? Was this considered flirting? 

Pete’s cheeks darkened. 

“I guess you’ll have to stick around and see,” he said, voice a little lower than it was before. Patrick’s mouth was dry and he uselessly swallowed a couple times, trying to get past it. God. God, no, he could _notadorable_ line. His heart was pounding almost painfully, just ricocheting around his chest as he stared helplessly at Pete. 

“This is the part, where if you don’t like what I’m saying, you leave,” Pete said carefully. “And I won’t be offended and I will remain professional and apologize. But if you don’t leave, I’m going to assume you feel the same way and kiss you. Okay?”

Patrick pulled out all his courage, all his techniques to battle anxiety that his therapist and Elisa taught him, and nodded, swallowing past his desert of a mouth and meeting Pete’s eyes. 

“Okay,” Pete breathed, and stepped forward to kiss Patrick. 

About fourteen different expletives crossed Patrick’s mind at once as his eyes slipped closed. Pete cupped Patrick’s face and Patrick clutched at the front of Pete’s jacket, tentatively opening his mouth a little, deepening the kiss. Based on the low groan he got, that was exactly what Pete wanted him to do. 

Patrick was dizzy, spinning. He felt breathless and weightless, floating on every cloud, not even close to Earth. Pete’s lips were slightly chapped and he had stubble that scraped Patrick’s cheeks in a way that sent shivers down Patrick’s spine. Patrick gasped as Pete gently sank his teeth into his bottom lip, letting it go only to capture his mouth again. 

It was everything Patrick thought it would be and more, and it felt so real and unreal at the same time that Patrick opened his eyes to see if Pete was really right in front of him. 

He was, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Meagan, looking over at them, noticing them, _seeing this._

Oh crap. Oh crap, fuck, shit, _no._

Patrick abruptly pulled away, gasping for breath, feeling Meagan’s eyes on him like a lead weight. He was still clutching Pete’s jacket and he shook his head a few times, trying to find his words. 

“I can’t,” he said, and Pete’s expression shifted. “I can’t, I can’t be that person. I’m sorry.”

He stumbled away, heading for the back, for his kitchen and the back door, leaving Elisa to close up, disappearing into the night. 

\-----

“What in the _hell_ was that?” Elisa demanded, and Patrick hunched his shoulders. He’d forgotten he didn’t have a key to Elisa’s place, so he was hanging out in the hallway outside her apartment like a loiterer. Elisa sounded pissed but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Seriously. Patrick. What the hell.”

“He kissed me.”

“Yeah, I fucking saw, thanks,” Elisa said, and Patrick heard her unlock her door. “Get in. What were you thinking?”

“I know,” Patrick whispered. “I know I should have stopped him, I was wrong.”

Elisa froze. 

“Wait,” she said. “Wait, what?”

“I should have stopped the kiss,” Patrick repeated. “I’m not a homewrecker, I never wanted--”

“A _homewrecker?_ ” Elisa asked, sounding dumbfounded. “Wait, you stopped kissing him and ran off like a scared puppy because you thought he was cheating? Cheating on who?”

“Meagan?” Patrick asked. “His girlfriend?”

“If Meagan is his girlfriend, she has some explaining to do,” Elisa said. “Namely why she was flirting with me all night. Did you ask him if Meagan was his girlfriend?”

Patrick gaped at her. She scowled. 

“Of course not,” she said. “Of course not, why on Earth would you ever open your mouth and sort stuff out? Better to just _assume_ even if it’s untrue?”

“I--”

“Patrick, no,” Elisa said firmly. “You need to stop. You are wrecking your life because you won’t say anything. Why are you at my apartment? Oh yeah, because you can’t stand up to your dad. You ran off on Pete just a week before the event he hired you for because you didn’t bother to clarify if he was in a relationship or not. Patrick, what the _fuck._ ”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Patrick’s voice was tiny, afraid, Patrick choking back tears. Elisa sighed, turning to him as he tried to take those deep breaths, to will a breakdown away, even though if any situation in his life called for one, this was it. He felt Elisa pull him into a hug and rested his head on her shoulder struggling not to cry. 

“You have got to stand up for yourself, Patrick,” Elisa said softly. “You are my best friend in the whole world and I can’t stand to watch you keep getting hurt because you can’t defend yourself. I bet you you’d feel so much better if you confronted your dad and got him out of your own goddamn home. You’d still be with Pete right now if you hadn’t assumed the worst and ran. You’re sabotaging yourself, Trick. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Patrick whispered, voice cracking. “I know. I just--”

“I know it’s hard,” Elisa said. “But you’re your best advocate and nothing can change that. Start now. Start getting control back so that the next time you see Pete, you can explain yourself.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, but he had no idea where to start. 

\----

The thing was, Patrick agreed with Elisa. He really did need to stand up for himself. He should have fucking asked Pete, but it was too late for that. 

One thing it definitely wasn’t too late for was throwing his father out. Elisa was right. Patrick was sick and tired of that abusive old _fuck_ ruining his life every single fucking day. Because of him, Patrick hadn’t been taking his medication regularly, too afraid to be caught. 

That ended now. 

“Dad,” Patrick whispered to himself, trying to stay strong in the elevator ride up to his apartment. “Leave. Now.”

“What if he argues?” Elisa asked from next to him.

“I stay firm,” Patrick said. “He leaves. It’s my apartment and I’m not willing to let him continue living there.” 

“If he argues?” Elisa asked. “Calls your names?”

“Ignore him,” Patrick replied. “Keep telling him to leave.”

“I’m right here,” Elisa said. “You can do it.”

“You’re back,” his father said snidely the second Patrick and Elisa walked through the door. “With your little bodyguard.”

“You’re no longer welcome to stay here,” Patrick said, as bravely as he could. “You need to leave. Now.”

“You said the end of the month,” his father said. 

“You stole my belongings,” Patrick said. “It’s not the end of the month anymore. It’s now. Leave, or I will call the police.”

“The police won’t help you evict your old, helpless father,” his dad said, and Patrick gritted his teeth.

“You’re not old or helpless,” Patrick said. “You’ve lived here for a year. You’re done.”

“You can’t kick me out.”

His father sounded a little desperate now, a little unsure. Patrick had never been firm on things like this, and now would have been where Patrick broke, but not anymore. 

Elisa. Was. Right.

Elisa was right, his therapist was right, everyone was right. 

“I’m kicking you out,” Patrick said. “Leave immediately. I really will call the police.”

“So it wasn’t enough that you going to that school killed your mother,” his father seethed, puffing up a little. “You’d kill your father, too?”

“That’s asinine,” Patrick managed. “Mom died of a stroke. I didn’t cause it any more than you did. And you leaving this apartment will not kill you.”

“Where will I go, then?” 

“Go to Kevin’s,” Patrick said, trying to calm his heart down, trying to sound confident. “Go to Megan’s. Go anywhere else, I’m done hosting you.”

“You’re the worst child I have,” his father snapped. 

“That’s fine,” Patrick said. “Because you’re the worst father. I said leave.”

Patrick’s father held his gaze for a long moment before standing up straight and stalking towards the door. Patrick let him go, shutting and locking the door behind him as he went. A few seconds passed, where he waited with bated breath for his father to start a scene, but all was silent and he released the breath he’d been holding all at once. 

“Patrick,” Elisa said softly, and Patrick choked on a sob. “Oh, Patrick, I am so fucking proud of you.”

Patrick nodded, swallowing past the tears. 

He’d done it.

He’d really done it. 

\-----

Patrick was swamped with work for the show. He devoted all his free time to it--he was _not_ dropping the ball on this, even if his heart hurt and his anxiety was screaming at him all the bad things Pete probably thought about him.

Patrick wasn’t worth it. Patrick was too anxious. Patrick was--

Every time his brain started up he stopped what he was doing and did every breathing exercise in the book. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t but at least Patrick felt like he was trying.  
Patrick was sometimes worried he’d have anxiety forever, but he was doing his best. That was what mattered. 

It would hurt so bad if Pete washed his hands of Patrick, but it was done. Whatever was gonna happen was gonna happen. There was nothing Patrick could do about it.

Three days before the show, he was getting ready for the final haul, the real baking. His end game. It was his last day to make any last minute adjustments because he had to get the ingredients the next day and--

“Patrick?” Travie’s uncertain voice cut through Patrick’s racing mind. “Uh, are you accepting visitors right now?”

“Depends who it--”

Patrick’s voice cut off as he turned to face an extremely disapproving face. He swallowed, taking a deep breath, and nodded at Travie. 

“He’s fine,” Patrick said. “Hi, Andy.”

“Don’t you _hi Andy_ me,” Andy said firmly. “You have a lot of explaining to do. You’re just lucky it’s entirely too late to find a new baker.”

“I know,” Patrick said softly. “I--it was a misunderstanding. It was my fault.”

“Damn right it was your fault,” Andy said shortly. “Continue with your excuse.”

“I thought he was dating Meagan,” Patrick said. “And I know--I know I should have asked. But I thought--I didn’t want to be that person, you know? And it turns out he’s not and I am that person. I’m sorry.”

“Tell Pete that yourself,” Andy said. “He’s upset as shit, dude. You really fucked him up running off like that.”

“I know,” Patrick said softly. “I’ll explain to him.”

“If he wants to talk to you,” Andy said cooly. “You notice I’m here instead of him. Interesting for someone who wouldn’t shut up about you.”

“I noticed,” Patrick said. 

Andy raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you going to be ready for the show?” he asked, and Patrick nodded. “We expect you there at 9 AM. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Patrick said. Andy surveyed him for a long moment. 

“I didn’t even want to talk to you at all about this,” he said. “Pete’s been my friend since forever and I automatically don’t like a dude who acts like he’s into Pete and then dips. But my boyfriend has a soft heart, so. If you get Pete to talk to you, you got a second chance. Clear?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. Andy shrugged. 

“If Pete forgives you, I forgive you,” Andy said. “But if he says go, you go.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, and Andy turned on his heel and brushed past an obviously eavesdropping Travie, who’s eyes were huge. Patrick sighed. 

“I fucked up,” he said.

“Obviously,” Travie said immediately. “Do you think Pete wants to hear it?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “But I have to try.”

\----

Patrick was immediately overwhelmed once he got to the Uptown Theater. The sheer amount of people swarming around was enough to cause his anxiety to skyrocket, let alone the thought of trying to talk to Pete in this madness. 

He was set up and ready by eleven, models rushing back and forth. The show started at noon, if it stayed on schedule. The extra time watching everyone rush did not help his anxiety one bit, so he ducked under his table and took an Ativan, standing up and taking several deep breaths afterwards. 

He could get through this. He _could._

“Hi,” a voice said. “Can I have a cookie?”

“Sure,” Patrick said automatically, before blinking and stuttering. “Uh, Meagan. Hi.”

Meagan actually smiled at him, a soft, genuine smile as she selected a snickerdoodle. Patrick resisted the urge to scream, run, or otherwise make a fool of himself. 

“So I heard from Andy that you thought Pete and I were dating,” she said. “Which would be adorably funny if it didn’t mess things up between you two.”

Patrick swallowed as Meagan took a bite. His heart was beating funny, he just wanted an answer. 

“For the record, we’re not,” she said finally. “He’s like my brother, my best friend. And he’s gay, so.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Patrick managed to say, and Meagan smiled again at him. 

“I totally get why you would think that, though,” she said. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t ask about it. Pete’s not the cheating type, anyway.”

“I’m dumb,” Patrick said. Meagan shook her head. 

“Not dumb,” she said. “Just misguided. It’s not too late.”

“It’s not?” Patrick asked. 

“No.”

Patrick jumped a bit in surprise and turned around, hands shaking a little and throat dry. He swallowed and tried to say something, anything--

“Although it is kind of reassuring that you’d run before cheating,” Pete continued, crossing his arms. He was wearing a different suit, this one brightly tie-dyed, and his hair was out of its usual bun. His face was serious, stubble now a slight beard, and Patrick wanted to kiss him again so bad it hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “God, I’m just so sorry. I should have asked, I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”

Pete tilted his head. 

“I’m not that mad,” he said. “Well, now. Since Andy told me your explanation. I can almost say it’s funny, actually. Almost.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered. “I just--I’ve been dealing with such bad anxiety and depression the last year that I--I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Pete said softly. “Because I know what that’s like. I don’t blame you for not wanting to help me cheat. I’m relieved to tell you you don’t have to, since I’m single.”

“Oh,” Patrick managed. He was still shaking a little, still completely overwhelmed, but he fought to keep breathing. He could get through this. He just had to say it. 

“If you--” he began, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know how long I’ll struggle with this. It sometimes makes me unable to function. I’m medicated. It might be forever. You have to know that.”

“I know that,” Pete said. “I understand that. I’m willing to help, if I can. But I can’t if you just run.”

“I won’t,” Patrick promised. “I won’t and I’m sorry.”

Pete nodded, unfolding his arms. 

“Now that we understand we are both single,” Pete said. “And that I understand what you’re going through, may I kiss you again?”

Patrick swallowed hard but nodded, watching Pete walk towards him with wide eyes and a heartbeat in his throat. Pete’s movements were slow, deliberate, and Patrick’s eyes fluttered closed as Pete cupped his cheeks and pressed his lips to Patrick’s.

Patrick exhaled and felt his head spin a little. This close, Pete’s cologne was almost overpowering, heady and dark, and his kiss felt like he was stealing the air from Patrick’s lungs in the best possible way. 

Pete broke away gently and Patrick gasped for breath, shaking a little, overwhelmed. Pete’s eyes were dark and locked on him, making Patrick’s breath catch again. 

“Do you want to sit with me?” Pete asked, voice low. “For the show?”

Patrick swallowed hard and nodded. 

\----

Patrick didn’t know anything about fashion, but he had a feeling that even if he did, sitting pressed shoulder to shoulder with Pete would have completely distracted even the most expert person. Andy was on his other side, perma-smirk firmly turned on, like Patrick’s whole existence was amusing. 

He got used to the blindingly bright flashes, hoping he looked at least presentable, but he was still blinking the glare out of his eyes by the time he found himself in a cab with Pete, who was texting. 

Patrick swallowed and tried three times before he was able to speak properly. His heart was still racing, but Pete was still there. Patrick hadn’t scared him off. He had to try. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. Pete glanced up with a soft smile, reaching over to squeeze Patrick’s hand. “I mean it.”

“You being next to me made it the best show I’ve ever had,” Pete said. “And I mean _that.”_

Patrick flushed a little and Pete squeezed his hand again. Patrick fought with his anxiety in order to force the question that had been lingering on the tip of his tongue all night to come out. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” Patrick asked, all in a rush, and, to his surprise, the tips of Pete’s ears turned red. Patrick felt his cheeks get a little hotter as Pete’s grin widened. 

“I was going to say,” he said, turning his hand in Patrick’s so their fingers could intertwine. “The paparazzi are probably mobbing my building right now. It’ll be awhile before I can get home.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Patrick said quietly. “It’s not much, but you’re always welcome. If you want.”

Pete reached out and brushed Patrick’s hair away from his forehead, making Patrick grin a little helplessly. 

“I want,” Pete said simply. 

The ride up to Patrick’s apartment was quiet. Their hands were still joined, Patrick willing himself not to sweat in nervousness, only letting go once Patrick had to unlock the door.

Patrick froze.

His door was already unlocked, cracked a little bit. He felt his heart sink as he glanced at Pete. 

Only one person could have broken in, one person who Patrick forgot to get his key back from, one person Patrick really, really didn’t want to see right now. 

He took a deep breath, repeating Elisa’s words in his mind over and over-- _this is my home. You are not welcome._

He opened the door, feeling like he was ready to face something worse than his father, something like his own demise. He was shaking a little and he knew Pete could tell, could feel it in the hand Pete laid carefully on his back, between his shoulderblades. 

“I asked you to leave,” Patrick said, sounding much braver than he actually felt. He stopped dead in the hallway, Pete alongside him, and his father snorted, leaning on the wall. 

“I am your father,” he said. “You don’t get to kick me out.”

“Yes I _do,_ ” Patrick began, but was cut off.

“Who’s this?” his father asked, sneering at Pete. “Does he know you do drugs?”

“Get out,” Patrick said, fighting to keep his voice level. 

“No,” his father said. “I’m here for my belongings.”

He held up a stack of pictures, ones Patrick knew very well, kept in an envelope in a box that held everything he had left of his mom’s. He abruptly felt sick, felt his stomach try to claw its way out of his throat, and took an aborted step forward. 

“Those aren’t yours,” he said, sounding shaky. “Put those down, those are mine, don’t touch them.”

“Let me stay here,” his father said. 

“You’re not welcome anymore,” Patrick said. “Not after you broke into my bedroom and stole my medication. Put those down and leave.”

Patrick’s father narrowed his eyes, an ugly, nasty sneer crossing his face as he looked from Patrick, whose hands were clenched into fists at his sides, to Pete, who was still next to Patrick, who hadn’t gone anywhere. All Patrick could see were the pictures, all the pictures he had of his mom, and his heart thumped. 

“Fine,” his dad said, and, quicker than Patrick could react, he lifted the pictures, grabbed them in both hands, and ripped them. 

“No!” Patrick choked, heart shattering in his chest. Patrick’s father threw the ripped up pictures to the ground, still smirking, and Patrick couldn’t hold back anymore. Years of frustration and anger and hurt came screaming out of every inch of him and he stormed forward, grabbing the front of his father’s shirt, and shoving. 

“Get out!” he yelled, voice cracking. “I said get out, I meant get out! You are never welcome back here again!”

“You can’t talk to me that way,” his dad said, and Patrick saw nothing but a bright flash of light as his father backhanded him, sending him stumbling back.

Patrick hadn’t recovered from the sheer shock of his dad hitting him before Pete pinned his dad against the wall. 

“Patrick,” he said, surprisingly calmly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick choked out. 

“Call the police,” Pete said, and Patrick nodded. 

\----

The cops took his dad away in a rage of curse words, leaving Patrick and Pete there. Patrick stared at the side table in his hallway, where the pieces of his mother’s photos laid wrinkled and ripped and ruined. He’d picked each one up, one at a time, choking on sobs. It was everything, everything he had left of her. Every single one, gone, just like that, just because Patrick couldn’t--

“You were so brave.”

Patrick blinked, tearing his eyes away from the table to stare at Pete. Pete sighed, pulling an elastic tie off his wrist and tying his hair back before resting his hands on his hips. 

“What?” Patrick asked, voice cracking. 

“You were so brave,” Pete said simply. “I don’t think I would have had the courage to tell my dad to fuck off and he’s nowhere near that disgusting.”

“I should have told him so long ago,” Patrick said bitterly. “I should have stood up for myself.”

“We’re not always ready,” Pete said softly. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is.”

“It’s _not._ ” Pete’s voice was soft but firm, and he reached out to take Patrick’s hand and gently tug him close. “Look, I know I don’t know everything about you yet. Hell, you don’t know everything about me yet, either. But I know self-depreciation when I see it, because I lived it all those years between leaving my family and finding success. That feeling that nothing I did was good enough, that everything that went wrong was my fault. I know how that feels. But the important part is that you stood your ground even when giving in would have been easier.”

“How are you so perfect?” Patrick said thickly, wiping at his eyes. “After what I did--”

“Not really a big deal in the grand scheme of things,” Pete interrupted. “We talked about it. It’s okay. I understand. I know I’ll probably have to say that over and over but it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Why?” Patrick asked. “Because all you’ve seen of me is anxiety that makes me hide and a downright evil father, why the hell don’t you mind?”

“Is that what you think?” Pete asked. “That that’s all I saw? Because you’re not even close to right. Wanna know what I really saw this month?”

“What?” Patrick whispered, voice barely audible. He couldn’t look away from Pete, not for a moment. There was practically fire in his eyes, something electric and magnetic that kept Patrick right where he was. 

“I saw someone who took on a ridiculous project with little notice,” Pete said. “I saw someone who helped make another person’s birthday special again, just because they were struggling. You don’t know Meagan, not really, but you helped anyway. I saw someone so dedicated to what they do that they do it seven days a fucking week, Patrick. I saw someone who chose to be a good person, even when they got what they wanted. I know you like me. But you left because you wanted to be a good person. How could I fault you for that?”

“That’s not--”

“That _is,_ ” Pete stressed. “That really is you. You’re hard on yourself, I get that. But I don’t mind being the one to tell you different, every time. Okay? I fucking like you, Patrick, nothing you did changed that for me. Even when you left, I thought there _had_ to be an explanation. Because I knew you weren’t that kind of guy.”

Patrick stared kind of helplessly at Pete. He was overwhelmed, kind of shaky, but Pete looked sincere. Looked honest, like he believed the words he was saying, like they weren’t just platitudes. 

He didn’t know what to say, probably couldn’t even if he tried, so all that was left for him to do was to stumble forward, grip the front of Pete’s ridiculous tie-dye suit, and kiss him hard. Patrick kissed him like he wanted to taste the words he’d just said, like he was searching for authenticity and Pete was the only one who could provide it. 

After a moment, Pete tangled his fingers in Patrick’s hair, tilting his head, and kissing him back, with heat, with intent. Patrick couldn’t breathe very well but it didn’t even matter--he pressed forward, harder, grip tightening on Pete’s suit. 

He felt teeth on his bottom lip and whined a little, stumbling back as Pete pressed him against the wall. Pete wasn’t that much taller than him but it felt like he was towering over Patrick, all warmth and heat pouring over Patrick in waves. 

Pete pulled away, chest heaving, eyes darker than Patrick had ever seen, before he pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth and sank to his knees. 

“Pete,” Patrick whispered. Pete looked up at him. 

“I’m dead serious,” he said simply. “And I’m gonna show you.”

Patrick’s breath caught and he nodded, cheeks hot. Permission given, Pete popped the button on Patrick’s jeans, peeling them open almost torturously slowly, dragging his tongue across Patrick’s hip, his lower belly, making him pant and gasp.

Patrick’s hands had slipped from Pete’s suit so he tentatively buried them in Pete’s hair, instead, the surprisingly soft locks wrapping around his fingers like Patrick was supposed to be there. He whined, high pitched and uncontrolled, as Pete sucked a light hickey on Patrick’s hip, sucking kisses from there to the base of Patrick’s briefs-covered cock, confident, hot. 

Patrick gasped, grip tightening, as Pete hooked his fingers in Patrick’s briefs and tugged them down, dragging his tongue down the length of Patrick’s cock as it popped free. Patrick whined a little incoherently until it ended with a moan as Pete took his cock in his mouth and began blowing him. Pete’s mouth was unreal--it wasn’t like Patrick had lots of experience to begin with, and lately it had really just been him and his right hand, but God. Pete’s mouth was _unreal_ , hot and wet and overwhelming and all of a sudden, Patrick knew it was gonna end way too soon. 

“Pete, I’m gonna--”

Patrick didn’t even get to finish his sentence before he was coming. He dimly realized that Pete was swallowing but his head thunked back against the wall and he saw stars as he trembled, coming down with gasps and pants. 

Pete stood, sliding his hands up Patrick’s sides before tilting his head back down and kissing him gently. He drew back so their noses were touching, just enough that his eyes were focused on Patrick, and he was all Patrick could see. 

“I swear,” he said, and Patrick took a deep breath and nodded. 

\-----

**A little--or maybe a lot--later**

_“And Pete Wentz of Clandestine Industries is noticeably quiet about any plans for his winter line, only releasing the date of his exclusive show. He’s not normally this secretive, is he?”_

_“No, he’s not. We have to wonder what he’s planning. Rumors are circulating about a new boyfriend possibly, but Wentz has been even quieter about those rumors. He hasn’t had a show since his Valentine’s show last year. Knowing Wentz, it’s gotta be good.”_

“No pressure,” Pete said idly from the couch, taking a long sip of his coffee before replacing it on the coffee table. Patrick made affirming noises from the kitchen, only half listening to the gossip show Pete was watching. “Babe.”

“Yeah?” Patrick called, finally glancing up. Pete had his head resting on the back of the couch, looking at Patrick upside down, and Patrick shook his head with a fond grin. 

“You’d think there would be more than rumors,” Pete pouted. “I haven’t exactly been subtle with you.”

“It’s a gossip show,” Patrick said patiently. “They think you’re only capable of dating models. I’m just a friend. A close friend.”

“A very close friend,” Pete all but purred and Patrick snorted. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he teased, and Pete huffed. 

“Still, you’d think after a year and a half they’d get the picture,” he said. “Are you absolutely sure you won’t walk the runway?”

“More than absolutely,” Patrick said, before cutting a piece of the cinnamon bread off and walking around the couch to face Pete, pushing his arms to the side and straddling him. “Open.”

“Sexy,” Pete said with a smirk, but obeyed, taking the piece of bread and chewing thoughtfully. “Oh, that’s good, babe.”

“You say that every time,” Patrick lied, grinning hard. Pete leaned up and kissed him, the cinnamon still lingering on his lips. 

“Yeah, well, every time it’s true,” Pete said. “Have I mentioned I love you?”

“At least twice a day for eighteen months,” Patrick said. “But you could always say it again. I have bad hearing, you know.”

“Oh, is that so?” Pete said, teasing, kissing Patrick’s jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. “Well, repetition never hurt anyone. I love you.”

Patrick beamed. 

“I love you too,” he said, and Pete grinned before kissing Patrick properly, long and lingering. Patrick broke away for a minute to frown at him. “I’m still not modeling for you. Don’t try and sweet talk me.”

“Yes, babe,” Pete sighed, rolling his eyes, and Patrick kissed him again. Pete’s hands settled at Patrick’s hips and kissed him back. 

The gossip show faded to the background. Soon, they would both have to deal with business stuff, Patrick with advance orders, Pete with the winter launch, but until they had to leave, they had each other. 

Patrick wouldn’t want it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> i exist in the nightmare realm at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
